To-day “Long Tom’s” shells were thrown pretty much at random about the town.  One blew a mule’s head off close to the bank, and disembowelled a second.  One went into the “Scotch House” and cleared the shop.  A third pitched close to the Anglican Church, and brought the Archdeacon out of burrow.  But there was no real loss, except that one of the Naval Brigade got a splinter in the forehead.  My little house had another dose of shrapnel, and on coming in I found a soldier digging up the bits in the garden; but the Scotch owner drove him away for “interfering with the mineral rights.”  At 3.30 the mist fell again, and there was very little firing after 4.  Out on the flat beyond the racecourse our men were engaged in blowing up and burning some little farms and kraals which sheltered the Boer scouts.  As I look towards the Bulwan I see the yellow blaze of their fires.

     Sunday, November 12, 1899.

Amid all the estimable qualities of the Boer race there is none more laudable than their respect for the Sabbath day.  It has been a calm and sunny day.  Not a shot was fired—­no sniping even.  We feel like grouse on a pious Highland moor when Sunday comes, and even the laird dares not shoot.  The cave dwellers left their holes and flaunted in the light of day.  In the main street I saw a perambulator, stuffed with human young.  Pickets and outposts stretched their limbs in the sun.  Soldiers off duty scraped the clods off their boots and polished up their bayonets.  Officers shaved and gloried over a leisurely breakfast.  For myself, I washed my shirt and hung it on the line of fire to dry.

In the morning one of the Irish Brigade rode in through the Liverpools’ picket.  He was “fed up” with the business, as the soldiers say.  He reported that only about seventy of the Brigade were left.  He also said the Boer commandants were holding a great meeting to-day—­whether for psalms or strategy I don’t know; probably both.  We heard the usual rumours that the Boers were going or had gone.  Climbing to the Manchesters’ post for the view, I could see three Boer trains waiting at Modder’s Spruit station, about six miles up the Newcastle line.  Did they bring reinforcements, or were they waiting to take “Long Tom” home by return ticket?  We shall know to-morrow.  Over the valley where we repulsed Thursday’s attack, the vultures flew as thick as swifts upon the Severn at twilight.  Those were the only signs of war—­those and the little forts which hid the guns.  Otherwise the enormous landscape lay at peace.  I have never seen it so clear—­the precipitous barrier of the Basuto mountains, lined with cloud, and still touched with snow:  the great sculptured mountains that mark the Free State border:  and then the scenes which have become so familiar to us all—­Elands Laagte, Tinta Inyoni, Pepworth Hill, Lombard’s Kop, and the great Bulwan.  Turning to the south we looked across to the nearer hills, beyond which lie Colenso, Estcourt, and the road to Maritzburg and the sea.  It is from beyond those hills that our help is coming.